Too Little, Too Much
by BonesBBLover
Summary: Some people lose their faith because Heaven shows them too little. But how many people lose their faith because Heaven showed them too much?" Following episode 6x22 "May Day"; what happens when Carter goes to Atlanta.


Peter went with him all the way to Atlanta. He rented the car, drove him to the clinic, walked with him up the long, empty driveway, held his hand as they walked through the doors, and filled out the paperwork while they sat in a plush, comfortable waiting room.

John Carter sat next to his mentor, his best friend, clinging to his hand like a child clings to his father on the first day of kindergarten, holding on until the last possible moment when the head of the rehab clinic came to take him away. "Wait," he cried, reaching out for Peter again, needing the assurance that someone cared about him, needing the comfort of a strong pair of arms to convince him that he wasn't alone.

"C'mon, Carter," Peter let the younger man cling to him, crying against his shoulder. "I'll be back for you in ten weeks. I promise."

The words, meant to reassure, only made him shake harder. Knowing that he wasn't going to have any outside contact for the duration of his treatment, as per the contract he had just signed, John tried to get as much as he could before Peter had to leave to go back to Chicago. He could feel Peter's kiss against the top of his head and his fingers clutched tighter at the dark sweater the older surgeon was wearing.

"Dr. Carter, it is time to let go," a man's gentle voice insisted from somewhere behind him, and he could feel Peter loosening his grip in response to the words. Against his instincts his fingers relaxed, unconsciously smoothing away the wrinkles he had left in the fabric, before he shifted ever so slightly away from the older man.

"Okay," he whispered softly, looking Peter in the eye for the first time since he got in Dr. Greene's van back in Chicago. "Okay." He took a step away from Peter, losing all physical contact and instantly missing it.

"Carter," Peter smiled sadly, cupping John's face with both of his hands. "Be good, alright?"

John only replied with a sad smile of his own, reaching up to squeeze Peter's hands before he removed them from his face and took another step toward the waiting doctor. "Goodbye," he whispered, looking away from man who loved him enough to force him into a rehab program and toward the doctor who would be supervising his recovery for the next ten weeks.

Dr. John Carter followed the man towards a set of double doors without a backwards glance, but the knowledge that Peter's eyes were on him until he disappeared from sight gave him a last moment of comfort he would need in the following ten weeks.

***

Wrapping his arms even tighter around his knees, John tried to quell the tremors that shook his slight frame. His muscles shook and spasmed of their own accord, his face and back sweating profusely as his body begged for the drugs it had become so accustomed to. Unable to do anything by curl into a fetal position and pray the symptoms of the withdrawal would pass, John reached helplessly for an envelope that he kept beneath his pillow.

Finally retrieving the elusive item, he struggled with shaky hands to withdraw the pages without tearing them, forcing his mind to concentrate solely on making the muscles in his fingers behave long enough to open the letter for the millionth time in the last three days.

_John, _his eyes read the familiar doctor's scrawl, the thickness of the line on the page and the forward slant calming his overly-active mind.

_The first week is always the hardest. You can do this, John. You'll get through it with flying colors like you always do, because you're stubborn and one of the hardest-workers I've ever encountered. While you may not have been yourself these last few months, you're still the same John Carter who walked into the ER seven years ago looking lost and confused, and I know you'll get through this because I know you. Even if you don't know yourself anymore, I know you, and I know you're still there. Somewhere._

_Have faith, Carter, you'll get through this. Remember, the first week is always the hardest and after that it's all downhill._

_Peter._

Closing his eyes, he let the paper fall from his fingers, digging his nails into his calf and squeezing the trembling muscles, praying that Peter was right. He prayed for the strength that everyone assumed he possessed, but that he hadn't felt in a great number of years. He prayed that if he wasn't strong enough to get through the program that God would just kill him and put him out of the misery he was causing his friends and co-workers. He prayed for Peter Benton to know that he did his best, but also to know that he just wasn't strong enough.

***

"John," the psychiatrist spoke, drawing John's attention from his lap to the group around him. "Would you like to share what led you to your addiction?"

Dropping his gaze back to the floor, he hesitated for a moment, knowing that the longer he put off participating in the group sessions the longer he would be there. He had already waited over a week to contribute to the discussion, after all. With his decision made, he began to speak.

"One night when I was making rounds in the ER, a patient stabbed me twice in the back with a six-inch butcher knife," he admitted, the sound of the group's collective gasp lost in the background as his memory took the forefront. "As I was laying there bleeding out, I saw my med student a few feet away. She was lying there with stab wounds while I was down the hall at a party in the lounge. The only reason I even went to look for her was because I was pissed of that there was an arm laceration she was supposed to have done hours before and no one had seen her."

He paused to take a deep breath before continuing, his eyes still firmly fixed on the floor. If he had looked up, he would have seen the tears glistening in the eyes of the rest of the doctors that made up the group, tears for the young med student and for the veteran that had fallen into the downward spiral of addiction through no fault of his own.

"She died on the table," he whispered, rubbing his hands fiercely at the tears burning in his eyes. "And I lived," his short bark of laughter ringing hollowly in the silent room.

"Once again, God picked the wrong person to let live," he mumbled softly, low enough that the only one to hear was the psychiatrist on his left.

Dr. Milton, the white-haired psychiatrist running the session, frowned in response to his patient's mumbling. Quickly jotting the words down onto a pad of paper for questioning later in a private session, the doctor attempted to get John to continue speaking. "Then what happened?"

"I was prescribed pain killers for the pain. The blade had missed my spinal cord by only a few inches, and the pain was excruciating. I'd never felt pain like that, and there was nothing I could do except lay in bed and take my pain killers," John admitted. "And when I went back to work a few weeks later, they were the only thing getting me through the day. It took away all the feeling; for a little while, the pain was gone and I didn't see Lucy's blood every time I went into Exam One."

"Why are you here, John?" Dr. Milton asked, needing John to voice the whole story to the group.

"Because one of the med students saw me injecting leftover phentanyl into my wrist," his eyes were still downcast in shame. "My pills weren't enough anymore, and I was using anything I could get at work to dull the pain."

"Who sent you here?" the doctor tried again, coaxing John to tell the rest.

"My attending and the head of the department," John admitted. Overridden with guilt, John once again began to rub at his eyes, "and my mentor."

"Thank you, John," Dr. Milton ended the line of questioning. Addressing the group, he continued, "I think that's enough for today. Does anyone else have anything to say?"

The blank faces and tears on the faces of the other patients were answer enough, and they all began to silently file out one by one, occasionally touching John on the shoulder in an attempt to comfort.

***

"Hi," a woman's voice interrupted John's thoughts, drawing his attention back to the present. "Is this seat taken?"

"Oh, uh, no," John stuttered slightly, waving to the chair opposite him and sitting up a little straighter, picking at the food on his plate without interest.

"Thanks," she smiled, showing off her perfectly bleached white teeth. Her blonde curls bounced as she seated herself, her big blue eyes trying to catch his eye.

"Whatever," he shrugged, not having any intention of making friends in this place.

"I'm Suzie," she was too perky for this time of the morning, John noticed immediately, wishing for the thousandth time for coffee.

"Yep," John mumbled, pushing away his uneaten omelet and standing up to make a quick escape.

His escape route was impeded, however, by the only person he wanted to speak to less than bouncy blonde Suzie, and that was Dr. Milton.

"Good Morning, John," the doctor greeted him with his annoying fake smile. "Do you have time for a private session this morning? I know you'll be leaving in a few days, so we just need to have a wrap-up session."

Glancing back at the table, where Suzie's blue eyes were still watching him, John grudgingly replied, "Fine. What time?"

"How about now?" the doctor jumped at the chance, obviously realizing that John was caught between two situations he didn't want to be in.

"Whatever," he replied with a sigh, following the doctor down the hall to his office.

Dr. Milton rolled his eyes at the sullen patient. Ten weeks he had been here and hadn't cheered up in the slightest, not even after the worst of the withdrawal was passed. Gesturing John to the couch he took up his usual chair, grabbing the patient file from his desk as he passed it, and made himself comfortable.

"During the first group session you spoke, you made a comment, and I quote, 'Once again, God picked the wrong person to live.' What did you mean by that?" The doctor had decided early on that the best way to deal with John was to be blunt and upfront about things, and he hoped that would help him again in this situation.

John glared at the doctor before looking away again, obviously upset by the doctor's words. His intention was to ignore the question, but Bobby's pale face slipped into his mind, forcing him to take in a quick breath.

"Whose death do you blame yourself for?" the doctor tried again, prodding for an answer.

"Bobby's," John sighed after what felt like an eternity. "My brother Bobby died when we were kids."

"How did he die?"

"Leukemia," he whispered the word that had been haunting him since the first diagnoses. "He had cancer."

"And why do you blame yourself for that?" the doctor asked, leaning forward slightly as he scribbled frantically on the yellow legal pad.

"Because it should have been me!" John exploded, getting up from his previously occupied space on the couch to pace the room. "His body rejected the bone marrow I donated, and he died from the resulting infection. I killed him."

"John," Dr. Milton spoke in a soothing voice, trying to calm his agitated patient. "You know as a doctor that it was nothing you did, that it was just an unlucky reaction."

"It doesn't matter," John replied, shaking his head angrily. "Everyone said it should have been me in that bed. Bobby shouldn't have been the one to die." He collapsed onto the couch, his body shaking from the force of the sobs that racked his body, burying his face in his arms.

After his sobs died down into quiet whimpers the doctor asked a simple question that John had already answered on the intake form, but one that he wanted elaboration on, "Are you a religious man, John?"

"Not any more," was the muffled response that came from the couch. "Doing what I do every day and going through everything I've been through, it would be a miracle if anyone would be," he admitted, lifting his head only high enough to take in the much-needed oxygen he was depriving himself of by burying his face.

"How's that?" Dr. Milton asked, already knowing the response that was coming but wanting to hear how the patient worded it because it was never the same no matter how many times he heard it.

"Most people lose their faith because they see the horrible things that happen in the world," John took a calming breath, wiping away the rogue tears still sliding down his cheeks. "I lost mine because I've been too blessed. There have been too many times that I survived something that should have killed me, that did kill people I loved, and that's not how it's supposed to work."

For once, Dr. Milton was speechless, shocked by the words his patient was saying. Words he had never heard expressing a concept he had never expected to encounter.

"There can't be a God who would take away innocent kids and doctors who genuinely cared, while sparing someone like me over and over. It just doesn't work that way," he admitted, his fingers fiddling in his lap.

"I believe it does, John," the doctor was finally able to speak again. "Obviously your purpose on this earth has not been fulfilled."

"Whatever, doc," John sighed, dropping his head into his hands. "Whatever you wanna believe."

***

On his last morning at the clinic, John actually ate his breakfast. For the first time in ten weeks he had an appetite and hungrily ate his omelet without giving any attention to Suzie who had once again seated herself across from him.

"John," Dr. Milton called from the doorway to the dining room. "Come with me."

The doctor's voice caused John to sigh, taking a last mouthful of egg and grabbing a biscuit and glass of juice on his way out.

"Time for our last session, John," the doctor told him, gesturing him into the office and toward the couch.

"Whatever," John replied, flopping down on the couch and putting his half-empty glass on the table.

A soft knock came from the closed door, followed by one of the nurses' voices, "Dr. Milton? Your visitor is here."

"Let him in," the doctor called, intrigued to see what would happen when the door opened.

A handsome black man stepped into the doorway, looking quickly around the room until his eyes landed on the couch and John. "Hey Carter," he smiled, a genuine smile that made his eyes light up.

"Dr. Benton," John replied from the couch, his own face lighting up in excitement as he stood and rushed to the door.

Dr. Milton watched with fascination as the pair embraced, stumbling backwards into the hallway from the force of the impact when John collided with Peter's chest. They clung to each other as if they were afraid the other one would disappear, and Dr. Milton began to wonder if his initial thoughts were wrong. The pair didn't make eye contact, rather John had his face against Peter's neck and Peter's head was resting on top of John's, holding him close. Their embrace was more that of a father and young son reuniting, rather than lovers, as the doctor had assumed them to be. He continued to watch them as they stood in the hallway, oblivious to the people passing them on their way from the dining room to the morning group session.

Finally, after almost ten minutes, John lessened his hold and turned to Dr. Milton. "Do I get to leave now?" he asked in a voice that reminded the doctor of an excited child on Christmas morning.

"Not just yet," the doctor smiled at his patient. "We still need to have our last session, but Dr. Benton will be joining us."

"Ok," John sighed, his excitement waning as he walked back into the room, his hand unconsciously holding Peter's wrist and leading him into the room. The pair sat on the couch, not touching each other besides where their legs were pressed against one another from thigh to ankle.

"Dr. Benton has already agreed to be your sponsor, John, as you know," Dr. Milton began. "You will work with him and check in to make sure you are not slipping in your recovery. As you both know, we cannot medically take Dr. Carter off the entirety of his medication because his back is still bothersome, but Dr. Benton will be the only one to distribute medication, as you have both agreed to. In addition, none of the medication prescribed will be of the narcotic variety, only simple ibuprofen and aspirin."

"Yes, sir," John replied.

Peter chose not to say anything, merely nodding in the affirmative and placing a hand on John's shoulder.

"If you have no further questions, you may go collect your things and sign out at the front desk," the psychiatrist concluded, closing the file in front of him.

"Thank you," the two replied, shaking Dr. Milton's hand before quickly leaving the room.

***

Within ten minutes they had collected all of Carter's belongings and signed all the release paperwork and were walking to the car.

"You look like shit, man," Peter looked over at his former student who had obviously lost a significant amount of weight in the last ten weeks and had dark rings around his eyes.

"Yeah, well, I feel better," Carter admitted quietly. "Can we stop to get something to eat?"

"Sure," Benton smiled as they reached the cart and got in. "Our flight doesn't leave until tomorrow afternoon, so how about we get some food and a couple of movies and crash at a hotel?"

"Sounds good to me," the younger man agreed, looking over at Peter when he started the car. "And thanks."

"For what?" Benton asked, already having an idea of the answer.

"For keeping your promise and coming back for me," Carter replied. Laying his head back against the seat rest he quickly fell asleep, finally sleeping soundly for the first time in ten weeks.

"I always will," Peter glanced sideways at his young friend. "I always will."


End file.
